


Yule Shoot Your Eye Out

by antisepticdork



Category: X-Men (Movies), X-Men (Movieverse), X-Men - All Media Types, X-Men: Days of Future Past (2014) - Fandom, X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: (He's Thinking About Shrimp), Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Assassins & Hitmen, Boston, Charles Xavier has a Ph.D in Adorable, Christmas Party, Drama, Erik Has a Van and a Bad Attitude, Erik is Crushing Harder than a 12-year Old Girl, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Honestly Charles What Are You Thinking, Humor, Kinda Cracky Kinda Serious, M/M, Misunderstandings, Past Child Abuse, Shrimp
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-15
Updated: 2015-08-23
Packaged: 2018-04-14 18:51:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4575792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/antisepticdork/pseuds/antisepticdork
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(In which Charles realizes too late that he's been invited to his family's annual holiday party and needs a date, Erik is a gun-for-hire who gets clients from Craigslist, and I attempt to bumble my way into a new fandom.)</p><p>Moira slurps another shot while he and Hank recount Charles’ tale of email-related woe—complete with Hank reading selected passages of the message while doing a startlingly good impression of Sharon Xavier—and when they’re done she emits a low whistle. “I don’t know, Charles—sounds like you’re pretty screwed.”</p><p>“Oh, believe me, I’ve never had a tighter grip on my ankles,” Charles says, scrubbing a hand over his face. “But what do I <i>do</i>, Moira? I have to go, and if I show up alone I won’t live it down until Kurt’s rotting in his grave—”</p><p>“Needs to happen sooner rather than later, if you ask me,” Moira mutters.</p><p>Beside Charles, Hank nods his agreement.</p><p>“—and don’t even get me started on Cain, he’ll have a field day with this. In fact, I bet it was him that put the idea in Mother’s head. This is a first world problem at its finest, I know, but if I don’t figure something out I’ll most likely meet my end with a stiletto heel through my eye and shellfish in my pants.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi there, potential readers! This is my first foray into the First Class fandom, and since I've read so many amazing fics (too many to name!) about these silly men I'm a little nervous about dipping my toe in the water. I saw [this post](http://sammykinz.tumblr.com/post/126712040367/posting-this-so-i-can-link-it-to-my-first-xmfc) around Christmas of last year and decided I wanted to Cherik it, but it took me this long to come up with something I thought was decent. I tweaked the original post a bit, and because everything I write has a tendency to involve inappropriate humor and homicide, this fic was born! I'm thinking this is going to be at least three parts - I have some of the second part written - and hopefully it doesn't take me until Christmas to finish it. I hope you enjoy this, and please feel free to let me know what you think.
> 
> (The title is from the Fall Out Boy song of the same name. I thought it was appropriate.)

 

~***~

 

Charles Xavier is totally, completely screwed, all because he made the mistake of logging into his email account.

Well… scratch that. One could actually make the case that he’s utterly, mind-numbingly screwed because he didn’t log into his email account soon enough.

The Epic Saga of Screwedness—as Charles has taken to calling it, because naming your crappy life experiences is totally normal, shut up—started with the biggest snowstorm to hit Boston in a decade knocking out power most of the power in the city, which rendered all of his electronics useless once their batteries ran out of juice.

When the snow finally stopped flying, Charles made it three steps out of his shitty apartment building before he slipped on a patch of ice and landed on his ass like a clumsy twat.

Of course the universe wasn’t happy with only giving him a bruised tailbone and wounded pride—he’d also managed to crush his cell phone into something resembling a metallic pancake. That sucked for several reasons, the biggest one being that as a permanently broke college student a replacement wasn’t in sight.

At least he still had his laptop.

_Ha ha_ , the Universe said in response to that silly notion, frying his hard drive with malware. (You click on the wrong ad for dragon-sized dildos once, just _once_ , and the shit flies.)

After several minutes of hyperventilating—his _life_ was on that piece of plastic, that hopelessly expensive piece of plastic, and he and Hank were nerds but they weren’t _tech_ nerds—Charles recalled seeing a number for tech repairs stuck to the communal corkboard.

The following minute involved him running downstairs in his boxers and one sock and nearly demolishing the Christmas tree in the lobby. He memorized the number and felt triumphant until he wound up sharing the elevator with Ms. Pryde and her daughter, Kitty.

“Terribly sorry,” Charles said, acutely aware of his pasty whiteness and freckles and the fact that he was mostly naked in front of a six-year-old. “Computer trouble, you see.”

Mrs. Pryde hummed noncommittally as she slapped a hand over her daughter’s eyes and got off the elevator a floor below where her apartment was.

Bloody fantastic.

 

~***~

 

That was yesterday. Today Charles is sitting in the internet café down the street, awaiting an email regarding the status of his laptop and breathing in the fetching aura of stale urine and old deli meat. In the twisted reality that is Charles’ life, this particular internet café doubles as the kind of café that one could eat at, if one fancies an establishment that sells burned coffee in paper cups and soggy sandwiches from the gas station across the way.

Charles is busy trying not the vomit due to the stench—the gentleman in the next cubicle appears to have neglected his personal hygiene for some time—and at first doesn’t notice the rare sight of his mother’s email address peeking out of his inbox in between an offer to replace lost hair and pictures of Paris from his sister Raven.

He reads the subject line— _The 2015 Xavier-Marko Holiday Ball: You’re Invited to the Bash!_ —and groans loudly, no doubt prompting his fellow patrons to think he’s jacking off in public. The email contains a slew of garish lettering and some glittery HTML, announcing that annual the dinner and dancing extravaganza (read: Charles’ personal hell) is on the 24th of the month, as it has been for the past twenty years, blah blah turducken blah—wait, what’s that at the bottom, in the tiny font?

_Guests are encouraged to bring a companion for the evening._

What the fuck.

 

~***~

 

And _that’s_ the real reason Charles is totally, completely, utterly, mind-numbingly _screwed_. Not because it’s already the 22 nd, nor because he hasn’t purchased gifts for his family or made any travel plans. He is painfully, Holiday Ball-Bashingly _single_.

Perhaps those ten little words in the tiny font are meant as punishment for not attending Cain’s wedding over the summer, gag-worthy money-grubbing sham it was notwithstanding. More likely his mother forgot or simply doesn’t care that her son is a very busy, very gay Harvard genetics student. He hasn’t been on a real date in over a year and the last time he got laid is so far away it’s in Narnia.

Will they even miss him if he doesn’t go? Any other year the answer would be _no_ , but not attending Cain’s heinous nuptials may be the nail in his metaphorical coffin—a limousine could show up at his door two mornings from now while he’s eating his cereal in his knickers just to spite him. He doesn’t really want to give his neighbors another excuse to side-eye him at the mailboxes… there’s going to be an open bar… fuck it, he’ll go.

But here’s problem number two: Charles needs somebody to go _with_ him, or he’ll be the only person fighting to get to the shrimp sculptures alone and will wind up trampled to death under Jimmy Choos and Italian loafers. Also, if he doesn’t bring a date it’ll give his stepfather and stepbrother another reason to mock him. Charles can deal with that for an evening, but he’d like to avoid fueling the fire for future events.

He makes a mental list of the people he could go ask to accompany him to the party and, as expected, it turns out to be pathetically short. Raven is his go-to for things like this—and she owes him one after that Mary Kay disaster Angel hosted last spring—but she’s studying in France until March and is thus exempt from this idiocy.

Time to engage the backup plan.

 

~***~

 

“Hank,” Charles calls out when he enters their shared apartment, sidestepping their pathetic Charlie Brown Christmas tree and kicking off his soggy boots. He tries for a chipper tone but sounds slightly psychotic instead. “I need your help with something.”

Hank—being a good friend and roommate—doesn’t look up from his book. “I swear to God, Charles, if that giant fucking dildo is stuck in your ass again—” The masterfully crafted paper airplane made from the printout of Charles’ party invitation smacks him in the forehead. “Ow! What the— _oh_.” His eyes widen as he reads what’s on the page. “Oh, no. I am _not_ going with you to another one of these things.”

Charles frowns. “Why not?”

Hank folds the paper carefully back into the airplane shape before setting it on the coffee table. “All you did last time was steal shrimp and shove them in my pockets.”

“You got quite a bit of attention from the ladies,” Charles points out.

“Yes, and all of them were over the age of seventy.” Hank sighs, pushing his glasses back up his nose where they’ve slipped. “Look, just because I won’t go with you doesn’t mean that I won’t help you find a willing sucker— _don’t_ laugh at that!”

Charles sits down next to him on the couch, only sputtering a little from amusement. “Sorry, sorry, won’t happen again.”

They brainstorm in silence for a moment. The Charlie Brown tree looks on dubiously, if it’s possible for a tree to be dubious about the intelligence of human beings. Their worn-out couch has nothing helpful to offer, but a spring pops through the upholstery between them, longing to participate.

“I could call Moira?” Charles finally suggests. It’s the only idea he has.

“Good plan,” Hank says, handing him the landline. “If nothing else, she may know a way to fake a highly contagious illness.”

“Thank God it’s you,” Moira says when she answers her phone a moment later. “I’m about to murder someone.”

Charles winces, putting the call on speaker so Hank can hear her too. “That bad?”

“Other than fielding the usual obnoxious inquiries about why I don’t want to have children and being hit on by my cousin it’s been a goddamn cakewalk.”

“Is the cousin at least a second cousin?” Hank asks.

“What do you think, McCoy?” There’s a slurping noise and Charles wonders how much alcohol is involved. For a selfish moment he’s glad somebody’s as miserable as him, good tidings and cheer be damned. “It’s Craig—the one with the fedora? I swear to shit, there isn’t a man alive who looks good in one of those things—”

“—but they always _think_ they do. Yeah, I remember him from your aunt’s wedding.” And not much else about that particular event, other than waking up to the hotel toilet’s cool embrace with a mouth that tasted like bile and a stranger’s ass. But because Charles is Charles and Charles by nature is a big shit, he adds blithely, “Oh, darling, you could do worse.”

“Fuck off. Enough about my crappy holiday—tell me what’s going with you guys.”

“Okay, but first: do you happen to know any good ways to fake your own death?”

“You don’t have the money or the patience for it,” Moira replies without missing a beat. “Any particular reason you want to fall off the face of the planet?” Her tone turns sly. “Is this about a gentleman? Did you find Mr. Darcy?”

Hank snorts.

Charles groans theatrically. “More like a distinct _lack_ of Mr. Darcy, and before you lecture me about switching hands again, hear me out.”

Moira slurps another shot while he and Hank recount Charles’ tale of email-related woe—complete with Hank reading selected passages of the message while doing a startlingly good impression of Sharon Xavier—and when they’re done she emits a low whistle. “I don’t know, Charles—sounds like you’re pretty screwed.”

“Oh, believe me, I’ve never had a tighter grip on my ankles,” Charles says, scrubbing a hand over his face. “But what do I _do_ , Moira? I _have_ to go, and if I show up alone I won’t live it down until Kurt’s rotting in his grave—”

“Needs to happen sooner rather than later, if you ask me,” Moira mutters.

Beside Charles, Hank nods his agreement.

“—and don’t even get me started on Cain, he’ll have a field day with this. In fact, I bet it was him that put the idea in Mother’s head. This is a first world problem at its finest, I know, but if I don’t figure something out I’ll most likely meet my end with a stiletto heel through my eye and shellfish in my pants.”

“I’m going to disregard that last thing—that’s a weird thing, Charles—and brainstorm with you two instead, because that’s the kind of awesome best friend I am.” There’s knocking in the background, and Moira moves the phone away to holler, “Fuck off, Craig, I’ve got the runs!” Then she snaps her fingers. “Wait, that’s it—Craigslist!”

 Charles stops beating his head against Hank’s shoulder in despair. “Craig has a list? Of what, strange things he’d like to try with you? And hold on, are you calling me from the loo? You were _drinking_ in the loo?” A far more gruesome thought occurs. “Oh God, do you actually _have_ the runs?”

“ _You_ called _me_ so it doesn’t count, and yes, and no! I meant the website—you know, the one where you can find a used couch and a babysitter at the same time?”

That sounds just crazy enough to work—and Hank is giving him two thumbs up—but Charles has some reservations. “How would I even word a request like this without coming off as totally pathetic?” he wonders. “Also, what if whoever answers turns out to be—I don’t know, a hit man or something? That’s awfully risky, Moira.”

“At this point, which one is worse? Getting brutally murdered in the back of a Celica or going to this party without a date?”

What the _fuck_.

 

~***~

 

Picking a brand of toilet paper to buy, Erik Lehnsherr muses while standing in the paper goods section at Star Market, is a bit like deciding which politician to vote for in an election. No matter what benefits it claims to provide or which one you choose, at the end of the day it winds up soaked in bullshit.

His cell phone rings, providing a welcome distraction from that gross train of thought. “What is it?”

“You’ve got a gig, sugar,” Emma Frost says, her voice as silky-smooth as a python’s scales. “A new listing popped up not ten minutes ago—very no-nonsense, but clearly a first-timer. Janos mentioned we might have a referral coming when I saw him last, so that could explain it.”

“I still don’t believe that Janos actually speaks with anyone. I’ve certainly never heard him make a sound.” Erik pulls a random brand of toilet paper off the shelf and tosses it in his cart, heading for the dairy aisle. “All the keywords are there?”

“If they weren’t, would I be calling?” _Snick snick_ go Emma’s nails against an emery board. “A man seeking a man for—let me see here— _‘a holiday party that’s bound to make you murderous, complete with a wicked stepfather’_. He specifies that he’s looking for somebody who’s about your age. It also mentions an open bar, but whether that’s a preference or a side benefit is up for interpretation.”

When Erik took Emma on to keep his affairs in order a few years ago, it was during the boom-time for hit men more commonly known as the Great Recession. Despite the rash of dirty deeds he was asked to carry out against financial brokers and real estate agents through the usual channels—dead drops and answering machine messages—Emma had insisted that he look into other means of getting work. They still use the old ways too, but the internet turned out to be an anonymous and fairly simple way of catching jobs once they had a system in place.

The formula Emma developed goes like this: an ad is placed by a potential client in the Personals section on Craigslist. The posting has to include a certain set of keywords in order to be a possibility, and the keywords must be strung together in such a way that highlights an event or place and a target. A preferred method is optional, but it’s widely known (in the area of people who want other people killed, anyway) that Erik is among the most discreet and successful in the business, no matter how he winds up doing the job.

A place and time to meet is named by the client once Emma replies to the post, and Erik checks out the location a few hours before payment occurs and details are finalized. There’s some risk involved—a cop posing as a client, for example—but the only people who are informed of the keywords are referred by Janos, who does Emma’s hair, or Logan, who’s the local bail bondsman. And the referrals are all explicitly informed of what will happen to them if they turn out to be snitching for the law, so the circle is more or less closed.

It’s a damn good system, but you won’t catch Erik admitting it because then he’d be out fifty bucks and some pride.

Instead, he grabs a gallon of 1% milk and says, “Party, stepfather—got it. Is it the kind of party that our friend—” a far more discreet term than _client_ when speaking over the phone “—will need to be at in order for me to attend?”

“That’s the impression I’ve got. Think it’s some sort of annual family shindig.” He hears Emma pop a piece of Trident White into her mouth with a lazy crunch. “Am I _RSVP_ ing?”

“Sure, why not?” Erik turns his cart toward the checkout lanes. “I’m not busy, and our friend made himself pretty clear about what he wants—not like it’s some random asshole that’s desperate for a date.”

Emma laughs daintily. “Oh, how funny would _that_ be?”

 

~***~

 

Charles sits inside the smelly internet café later that afternoon and stares at his inbox for so long he nearly goes cross-eyed. Not only did he actually get a reply to his Craigslist posting, but it came in less than ten minutes after he’d hit _submit_. Before he opens the message Charles has thoughts of potential stalkers and serial killers, but then he remembers the possibility of going alone to the party and expiring with a giant shrimp held loosely in his cold dead fist.

‘ _Male, late twenties, and interested in your offer. I’m free tonight—pick a time and place for us to discuss details._ ’  

Charles reads the email and it sparks a glimmer of hope. The message isn’t overtly creepy or presumptuous, and it allows him to choose when and where they talk it through. No mention of money, either, which evidently means the idea of an open bar and free food is enough incentive.

Charles bangs out a reply and hits _send_ before he can think about it too much. Then he leaves the bathroom-and-salami stench of the café, almost gets run over by a passing bus while crossing the street, and jogs up the stairs to the apartment. It’s quiet and swathed in the early sunset’s fading light, Hank having left to finish up some last-minute shopping.

After he shrugs off his coat he grabs the cordless phone and calls Moira—Charles (unlike a certain person he hasn’t met yet) doesn’t have a problem telling his friends when they’re right.

Her voice echoes when she answers; he figures she’s using her Bluetooth headset. “Hey, Charles. Did you make the post?”

Charles bounces a little on his sock-feet. “Yes, Moira, and you’ll never believe—wait, what’s that sound?” If he didn’t know better, he would say it was muffled screaming.

“Nothing!” There’s a dull _thump_ , like Moira just kicked something. “Nothing you need to worry about, anyway.” Charles can hear dragging now, rough fabric against a solid surface—a blanket, maybe against a walkway? “So what happened?”

“I got a bite, and quickly, too. I’m meeting him later at Darwin’s.” Charles waits politely while Moira grunts and swears under her breath. A great _splash_ follows, and he remembers that Moira’s aunt—the same aunt whose backyard wedding he attended—has a pond on her property, one that’s rather deep. “Thank you so much for the idea, darling. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“Be perpetually single and horny, probably.”

Charles feels his face heat. “This isn’t a date, even though that’s what we’re calling it, and I certainly don’t expect to sleep with him. For all I know he could have a face that looks like it’s been through a driving wheel.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Moira sounds slightly winded. “I want proof if he turns out to be fugly, or a—what was it that you said earlier? A hit man?”

“Pretty sure I’ll be dead if it’s the second one,” Charles remarks dryly.

“Right. Well anyway, good luck with Operation Ball Bashing—I’ve gotta go move Cousin Craig’s car. Probably into a ditch.”

 

~***~

 

Darwin’s turns out to be a diner in Cambridge that Erik’s passed a hundred times but never ventured into. The remnants of an old metal trailer have been built up onto a concrete slab, given a proper roof, and crushed between a chain pharmacy and a dry cleaner’s. There are no flashy signs, not even a chalkboard propped up on the sidewalk; from across the street inside Starbucks, Erik can smell the grease. His arteries give a despondent twitch of sympathy for their kin.

He’s sitting at a table that’s kiddy-corner to a window, allowing him to look outside while being partially hidden by the corner wall. Erik’s been here for about an hour already but hasn’t aroused any suspicion. He’d ordered a venti latte and brought his laptop, earbuds in but not on. He’s too rough around the edges to pass for a college student but could easily be someone attempting to write his first novel or a professor grading late term papers.

The thought of the word _professor_ makes Erik lips curl inadvertently—his potential client’s email address labels him as one Professor X, which had led Emma to wonder via text message if their mystery man is in the porn industry. Erik had argued that in order for that to work he’d have to be Professor XXX, and the conversation had degenerated from there.

Erik looks at the time. Outside the streetlights have come on, painting golden circles on the concrete. It’s almost six o’clock, and providing this Professor X hasn’t gotten cold feet, he should be arriving at Darwin’s any moment now. Erik watches as two couples, a woman on a cell phone, and what appears to be a group of coworkers enter the restaurant over the next eight minutes and frowns—no single men.

Wait. There, hurrying down the sidewalk in a gray pea coat is definitely one man, unless he’s got a midget under there with him. Erik catches an impression of shaggy chestnut hair and pale skin, a dark blue scarf wrapped around an elegant throat. The man looks around for a moment, as if expecting to see something without knowing precisely what, before ducking inside Darwin’s.

Erik smirks. _Hello, Professor X_.

 

~***~

 

Charles is in a booth inside Darwin’s long enough to ask the waitress to hold off when a man slides onto the bench across from him with the confidence and surety of someone that’s already been invited, and _holy mother of fucking God_ he’s as hot as the surface of the goddamn _sun_.

Charles can hardly believe his luck. He’d been hoping for a guy who was reasonably nice to look at and capable of holding a decent conversation, but _this_ is a one-two punch of chiseled features and intelligent eyes. A shiver works its way down Charles’ spine and lodges in his gut. Sitting there surrounded by booth dividers and dingy fluorescent light that he’s convinced makes him look like a corpse, he has to quell the urge to pull out his phone and text Moira two things in quick succession: _JACKPOT_ and _send_ _help_.

After shuffling through and rejecting several possible opening lines, what comes out of his mouth is: “Uh.”

Attractive Man looks amused. He probably gets this reaction all the time, but maybe Charles is a step above the rest because he’s not openly drooling.

Raising a perfectly groomed eyebrow, Attractive Man asks, “Is your email address Professor X at Gmail dot com?”

Oh Jesus, that _accent_. It’s vaguely Germanic and Charles is almost ready to propose marriage. Thankfully he manages to find some articulation amidst thoughts of what their babies would look like. “Um. Yes. That’s me.”

The other eyebrow rises to join its twin. “You look a bit young to be a professor.”

Charles is thoroughly off-kilter and isn’t expecting the comment and therefore lets out a hideously high-pitched laugh.

The eyebrows have reached Attractive Man’s hairline and look to be plotting escape _._

“Er, no—I’m not a professor, at least not yet,” Charles stutters out, recovering, “it’s just a nickname. A couple of my friends—well, my only friends—” _oh yes that’s helping so much, keep going, you moron_ “—gave it to me because I usually wind up correcting our teachers. And my last name is weird.”

Attractive Man’s eyebrows don’t go for the lifeboat, returning to their home above his eyes, which appear to be a lovely mysterious cross between blue and gray and green. He looks a touch skeptical. “Your last name is Weird?”

Charles takes a sip of the complementary water and manages to not aspirate it or drop the glass. “Very much so, yes.”

“Really?” The eyebrows are back in action, but only spring up briefly before settling again. “That must’ve been hell in high school.”

“Oh, wait, no—my last name isn’t _Weird_!” Charles exclaims, backtracking once he replays the last twenty seconds of this tragic conversation. “It’s Xavier, Charles Xavier—you know, the _X_ in Professor X?” He runs a nervous hand through his hair and then extends it across the table. “We’re doing this completely backwards, aren’t we? Let’s start over—I’m Charles Xavier, and you are…?”

Attractive Man stares at Charles’ hand as though it’s a dead fish, and quick as lightning his own hand snaps out, strong fingers curling around Charles’ wrist and pinning it to the table. To an observer it was so fast that you wouldn’t see it, but to Charles it’s frightening, the grip on his wrist just this side of being painful. He attempts to pull away but it’s his left wrist—his _bad_ wrist. It’s weaker than the other one, and fighting against the pressure brings tears to his eyes. He goes still, biting his tongue against a scream.

Then Attractive Man—who is far less attractive when he’s digging his thumb into that soft spot—leans forward and asks in a low, dangerous tone, “What the fuck are you doing? I don’t want to know your goddamn name and you shouldn’t even wonder what mine is, let alone ask about it.” His eyes narrow. “But if you’re a cop I’ll eat my shoe.”

“What? What the hell are you _talking_ about?” Charles asks in a frantic whisper. His eyes dart around the part of the diner he can see, but none of the other patrons have noticed anything’s off. “You’re right, I’m not a cop—don’t eat your shoe—but why the bloody shit would you even _think_ that? And would you let go? I’ve got pins in this wrist!”

Attractive Man studies Charles’ face for a second, then changes his grip on Charles’ wrist so it’s not as crushing. “I think there’s been some kind of misunderstanding,” he says slowly. “Who referred you to me?”

“Referred me?” Charles repeats, confused as hell. “Nobody referred me! Well, I suppose Moira had the idea that I make the posting, and Hank was there, but I was the one… who—” He cuts himself off, mentally reviewing what he’d said in the Craigslist ad, and oh Jesus Christ in a bread basket. He starts to get up, his voice getting progressively louder on the next question. “Did you actually think I wanted you to _kill my stepfather_?”

“Sit down!” Attractive Man hisses, giving Charles’ wrist a squeeze. Nobody’s looking—the diner is crowded and there’s a lot of conversation happening besides their own—but if this turns into a shouting match it’ll catch some attention. “And keep your voice down, too, unless you’d like me to name you for conspiracy charges when I get arrested.”

Charles sits, and briefly considers trying to saw his trapped arm off with his butter knife. He decides maybe that’s a little extreme, despite this whole situation being exactly what he jokingly told Moira would happen. “So you’re actually a hit man?”

“And you’re actually looking for a date.” Attractive Man shakes his head in what Charles guesses is disbelief. He mutters, “Just wait until Emma hears this…” and then clears his throat. “If all you wanted was a date to a party, why did you include the part about murdering your stepfather?”

“Because this isn’t just a party, it’s a fucking familial abortion, and I said you’d _want_ to kill him, not that you _would_ ,” Charles replies calmly, while his heart continues to try and jackrabbit through his sternum. Though a fork to the jugular is most likely in his future he’s still a scientist, and that comes with a natural sense of curiosity. “How did you even find my posting? I can’t see you sitting in front of a computer and trolling through the personals.”

“I have someone who does that for me.”

“Oh. Like a secretary?”

“If I ever called her that she’d skin me alive, so no.”

“You’d probably turn out as a nice rug, or maybe a set of curtains,” Charles offers, and is gratified with a surprised flash of teeth—a whole lot of them, in fact. He returns the smile but sobers quickly. “Well then. Since I sincerely doubt a man like you would be interested in my predicament, one of us should probably be on our way.” He hesitates. “Unless, of course, you don’t believe me when you say I’ll keep your secret—then I should probably start screaming.”

 

~***~

 

Erik is totally, completely, utterly, mind-numbingly _screwed_ , and it’s all because of Emma and her fucking keywords and unbelievably blue eyes and goddamn British-sounding earnestness.

He is a man who kills people for a living—it’s about the only thing he knows how to do that requires any skill, besides playing chess and cooking. He’s ruthless and cunning and brutally efficient, senses as sharp as the knife hiding in his arm rig. He’s not a chatterbox or a socialite and he most certainly is not good date material and yet…

And yet Erik finds himself asking, “This party of yours… is there really an open bar?”

Not-A-Professor Charles Xavier blinks. “Uh, yes? Also enough food to feed a country full of starving children and a world-class orchestra for entertainment. Are you planning on crashing it after you cut my spleen out in the alley behind the restaurant?”

That last sounded like it wanted to be joking, but there’s a line of steel beneath the quip, one that suggests it could be possible Erik wouldn’t be the first to try something of the kind. Unreasonably, the thought makes Erik’s jaw clench. He’s careful to keep his hold on Charles’ wrist loose but firm, because he’d said something about pins, which means surgery or a previous injury, and Erik may kill people for a living but he doesn’t enjoy hurting them unnecessarily.

“I’m not going to cut your spleen out, and I’m not going to kill you, either. In fact, I was thinking…” _What the hell_ am _I thinking?_ Erik wonders to himself. “I was thinking I might accompany you. To the party. If you’d like me to.”

 

~***~

 

Charles… well, Charles isn’t drunk enough for this conversation.

“Just to recap,” he says, noting how Attractive Man’s grip has shifted so that his thumb is stroking the inside of Charles’ wrist; Charles isn’t sure Attractive Man knows he’s doing it and he makes a valiant attempt to ignore how nice it feels. “I placed an ad in the Personals on Craigslist and your—this Emma person—saw it and interpreted the meaning as me wanting you to come to the party and kill my stepfather?”

“Poison him, technically,” Attractive Man confirms. “But go on.”

“Right. Anyway, back here in Reality Land I was desperate to find a date on extremely short notice or risk lifelong ridicule and possible death by crustacean. Just when I think my luck’s turned around and you walk in here all tall and—and _yourself_ , I find out you’re a hit man and you find out—well, about the open bar. And now you’d actually like to go with me?”

“That’s about the size of it.”

Charles frowns. “You know I can’t pay you.”

“It’s fine. Don’t worry about it.”

“And the party is about three hours away from here, weather and traffic permitting. And I don’t have a car.” Attractive Man’s thumb is still stroking his wrist and it still feels nice. “And I don’t know your name.”

“I’ll take care of the transportation.” There’s a beeping noise, and Attractive Man retrieves his phone from a pocket inside his jacket. He looks at the screen, those fantastic eyebrows drawing down at what he sees. “I have to go. But I’ll pick you up the day after tomorrow—is noon alright?”

“The party doesn’t start until four, so that gives us plenty of time,” Charles says, feeling as though he might be stuck in some kind of mystical pipe dream. “Oh, and it’s formal dress.”

“Got it.”

It’s not until Attractive Man lets go of his wrist and gets out of the booth that Charles feels annoyed at his request for a name being ignored. It’s a good kind of annoyance—playful, maybe—and there are approximately a million reasons why this is a terrible idea, but he calls out, “Hey, you never answered me! What’s your bloody _name_?”

Attractive Man pauses, and Charles thinks he’s going to lie.

Instead he says, “It’s Erik,” and looks surprised at the admission.

They stare at each other for a moment, and then Attractive Man—no, _Erik_ —nods once and leaves, sweeping out of Darwin’s and into the chill of December in New England with a lithe grace that Charles could never hope to match. Charles realizes suddenly that he wantsto see _more_ of that lithe grace, and then wonders how he will, since he didn’t give Erik his phone number or address.

“Consider his profession, for fuck’s sake,” he mutters, tossing a ten on the table for the trouble of using it before heading for the door himself. “You’ll be dead by dawn.”

_Fa la la la la, la la la la…_

 

~***~


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, you guys - I can't begin to tell you how thankful I am for all the wonderful kudos and comments I've received on this story! I feel like I've been welcomed into the fandom and it's awesome. <3 Chapter two picks up right where chapter one left off and starts to incorporate some of the elements of the Craigslist post. It's a little shorter than the first one (sorry about that!) but I felt like I reached a good stopping point.
> 
> And if you're looking for a extremely funny Cherik fic to read that actually FOLLOWS the original prompt, I encourage you to check out [For The Love of Pumpkin Pie](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4456613/chapters/10125842) by the super-sweet [Butterynutjob](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Butterynutjob/pseuds/Butterynutjob)!

 

~***~

 

“For the love of God, Erik—tell me you did not just do what I think you did,” Emma says when Erik slides into the passenger’s seat of her Porsche after leaving Darwin’s. The car is parked almost directly across the street from the diner, meaning Emma would’ve had a perfect view of in case of a sting. It’s snowing lightly, and a thin layer of flakes have accumulated on the hood, white on white in the winter dusk.

Erik feigns ignorance. “What do you mean?”

“What do I _mean_?” Emma repeats slowly, lips pursing. Holiday lights in a rainbow of colors sparkle from the doorways of various businesses. They reflect in her blue eyes—they aren’t as blue as Charles’, Erik notes—and make them look as hard and pale as diamonds. “What I _mean_ is that he wasn’t a prospective client, was he?”

“No.” _And_ _whose_ _fault_ _is_ _that_ , _because_ I _didn’t even see the ad_ , Erik wants to tack on. He likes all of his body parts where they are, though, so he keeps his mouth shut.

“Yet you stayed, and talked to him, and held his fucking _hand_ like a swooning malcontent at prom?”

“He has nice hands!” Erik protests, and claps one of his own over his traitorous mouth. Through his fingers, he adds, “And it was his wrist. Technically. Mostly.”

Emma rests her forehead against the steering wheel. “Oh my God.”

They sit in silence, cars passing to-and-fro on the street. A plow goes roaring by, throwing up brown slush in its wake, a giant orange menace on an otherwise quiet road near the Harvard campus.

After taking a moment to gather herself, Emma raises her head and looks at Erik again. “So he actually wanted a date to a party?”

Erik nods. He attempts to school his expression so he doesn’t give himself away.

That goes about as well as you’d think.

“ _Lehnsherr_!” Emma snaps, landing a punch on his arm that’s firm enough to make him wince. “You agreed to go? To a _family_ _get_ - _together_?” She flips her perfectly coifed, extra-blonde mane out of her face in outrage. “Have you lost your mind?”

“Not that I know of,” Erik replies, pain shooting down his arm like an electric current. If Emma were anybody else he would hit her back, but he’s deathly afraid of those claws she calls nails and the scars they would leave on his face. “Look, if he resorted to posting an ad on Craigslist for a date things have to be pretty dire, plus there’s free food and an open bar. And honestly, who wants to watch someone else go to a party alone? Even _I’m_ not that cruel.” He studiously doesn’t mention shortness, soft-looking hair, or lips like sin.

Emma stares at him like he’s grown a third head or possibly an extra set of genitals. “Are you… being sympathetic?”

Erik frowns. “Is that what this feeling is? I thought I had gas.”

“You _are_ aware of how utterly stupid and potentially dangerous this is, right?”

“I’m aware that the more people I show my face to the more likely it is that I’ll be recognized at another time, yes. I’m conscious of that every day. But you aren’t talking about that, are you?”

Emma produces an iPad from her purse. “While you were in there planning your wedding, I was doing some research on who our Professor X was.”

Erik frowns again, this time with his eyebrows. “You hacked his email?”

“And his Facebook and Twitter and Instagram, but the email’s the important one.” She hands him the iPad. “Take a look.”

The invitation to Ball Bash 2k15 that Charles received is on the screen, and it’s a mess of coding and a lot of glitter that makes Erik’s eyes water to look at. Through the tears he notices the _Xavier-Marko_ written in the subject line, and he remembers a tiny alarm bell going off in his head when Charles told him his last name. He wasn’t sure why it happened then, but he sure as shit knows now.

“Xavier,” Erik says flatly, “as in Xavier Biotechnologies. As in _Brian_ Xavier—”

“—the rich, remarkable scientist who blew his brains out about thirteen years ago? The very same. His widow got remarried about a year later to one Kurt Marko, CEO of Marko Pharmaceuticals and a general pain-in-the-ass. His son Cain also got hitched a few months ago—your Charles was invited but didn’t attend. As far as I can tell, he doesn’t go home for any holidays or events except this one.”

“And where is home?”

“Westchester County—and it’s the kind of place you and I could afford if you assassinated the president, or maybe a Kardashian.” Emma takes the iPad when he hands it to her and puts it back in her massive bag. “The guest list is rather impressive. Lots of corporate bigwigs, some known associates of the Russian mob, a couple diplomats. You might see somebody you know, or someone who knows you.”

“And if that happens…? It’s not like they’re outstanding citizens that will call the police.” Erik isn’t sure why he’s so hell-bent on doing this. No infatuation he’s had, _when_ he’s had them, has ever led him to do something as strange as insisting on accompanying a near-stranger to a party that’s almost certain to turn into a disaster. “I’m going, Emma. I’ll need a vehicle. And a suit.”

Emma starts the Porsche and gave him a candy-sweet smile. “Get them yourself, sugar. I don’t run errands for kamikazes.”

 

~***~

 

Charles tells Hank what happened with Erik at the diner the following morning, after they’ve both had their third cup of coffee and are capable of acting like human beings instead of worn-out bags of flesh that communicate in grunts and clicks.

It doesn’t go well.

For a second after Charles is finished speaking, all Hank does is stare. Then he very calmly removes his glasses, sets them on the table, puts his face in his hands and says through his fingers in a muffled voice, “Are you _insane_?”

“Hey, you were the one who didn’t want to go with me,” Charles replies, gnawing on a piece of microwave bacon. “It was originally Moira’s idea, if you’ll recall.” His voice takes on a dreamy quality. “And he’s fairly pleasant for a murderer-for-hire.”

“Oh my God,” Hank groans, pulling at his face-skin in a way that makes his eyes look like they’re going to fall out of his head. “You think he’s hot, don’t you?”

“I’m alive, so yes.”

“You mean you’re alive _for now_!” Hank looks like he’s going to add something, but his phone vibrates from where it’s charging on the kitchen counter. He grumbles like the old man he viciously pretends to be and retrieves it. He frowns at what he sees, then hands the phone to Charles. “Pretty sure this is for you.”

The number that sent the text message is one that Charles doesn’t recognize—although considering the timing, there’s only one person it could be from—and it’s a question.

**On a scale of one to ten, how horrible is your family?**

Charles snorts. **_Twelve, easily._** _**Why do you ask?** _ Just to be safe, he also sends, _**I was serious about not wanting you to kill anyone.** _

**I know that,** Erik replies after a beat. **But Emma pointed out a potential problem with your plan.**

_**And what’s that?** _

**There are people at the party who might know me in a… professional capacity. If they recognize me there could be complications.**

_**Complications like the authorities might get called, or complications like everyone will turn on us with machine guns and we’ll have to make a daring leap from a window?** _

**The second one.**

“Wonderful,” Charles mutters aloud. **_So do you have an alternative?_**

**Yes, but I wanted to run it by you first. It’s a bit… unconventional.**

**_In what way?_ **

**It involves me completely ignoring that formal dress rule you mentioned and a van that smells like someone died in the backseat.**

Charles considers this for a moment. He has the startling realization that if he and Erik play this the right way, he may never get invited to another family gathering. The thought of not having to put on a monkey suit and make nice with rich drunk snobs that he can’t stand ever again is, in several words, too fucking tempting to pass up. But how to go about it? Not only that, but how to go about it and be _convincing_? With the exception of the whole wrist-squeezing episode, Erik came off as a total gentleman at Darwin’s—unless he turns out to be one hell of an actor, they’re going to need some guidelines.

A metaphorical lightbulb goes off in Charles’ brain as he recalls something he’d seen when he made his posting on Craigslist. Intrigued, he grabs Hank’s laptop and logs on to the website, scrolling through the personals until he finds the correct advertisement. It’s about two months old and the tagline reads: _Alone on Thanksgiving? Mad at your dad?_

Judging from the picture that’s attached it was written by a gangly redheaded guy named Sean, but the content—oh, the content is bloody _groovy_.

 ** _Sounds good to me_** , Charles sends back. **_But I do have some suggestions…_**

 

~***~

 

Erik is a bit confused by some of the things that Charles recommends—the Axe body spray is a good example—but spends the rest of the morning perusing the shelves at the CVS on Boylston Street until he finds what he needs. Then he hops in his BMW and drives to the newly remodeled Goodwill store over by the Boston University campus.

The Goodwill is both cleaner than the CVS and smells less like someone smeared feces on the walls, so Erik feels okay about making a call while he’s looking for improper attire to wear to the Xavier-Marko Familial Fuckfest. He holds his cell between his ear and shoulder while checking out the rips in a pair of ball-crushingly tight jeans.

Logan picks up on the second ring with a gruff “Howlett Bail Bonds” and an exhale Erik knows is poisoned by cheap cigar smoke.

“So I may have told someone I’d be picking them up in your van tomorrow,” Erik says by way of greeting. He and Logan have known each other for long enough that pleasantries are a waste of time… and it isn’t like they usually talk for pleasant reasons, anyway.

Logan lets out a snort. “Thought the whole point of the hit man gig was that they don’t see you coming.”

“Not _that_ kind of pickup,” Erik says, only slightly annoyed because yeah, he should’ve expected that. “I have a date.”

Silence. Then, “Didn’t think you’d ever have to resort to hookers, Lehnsherr—not with those cheekbones.”

“He’s not a—Jesus Christ, Logan, is it that hard to believe that I might _like_ someone?” Erik drapes the jeans over his arm and moves on to a rack full of t-shirts that have seen significantly better days. “It’s a date, one that involves no payment except free booze, and _I need your fucking van_.”

Logan taps his cigar against the edge of his crappy metal desk and the sounds grates on Erik’s nerves. “It _is_ that hard to believe, bub. You ain’t exactly personable on a good day, and now you’re telling me you wanna use my van to woo some guy?”

Erik growls in frustration; at the next rack over a college-aged guy wearing a backward Red Sox hat quite literally pisses his pants. “Is that a yes or a no?”

“Sure, go ahead,” Logan says with the equivalent of a verbal shrug. “You know the deal--pay for your own gas, and if you or your boy so much as scratches that paint job—”

“Yes, yes, it’s my ass, I remember,” Erik replies distractedly, having found a worn-out Green Day tour shirt that’ll go perfectly with the holey jeans. “When and where?”

“Any time after noon at the garage in Allston. Good luck with… whatever the fuck you’re doing.”

Until Logan brought up the idea of Erik getting laid, he hadn’t thought about it since recognizing his attraction to Charles yesterday. Now Erik contemplates fair skin, compact muscles, and how that adorable British accent might distort around drawn-out moans. He smiles, sudden and somewhat like a shark. “I’ve never needed luck, Logan. Only skill.”

 

~***~

               

Charles gets a text from Erik on Hank’s phone later that afternoon, as he’s digging through his closet looking for the only dress shirt he has that Moira and Hank both agree doesn’t make him look like stodgy. Just because Erik volunteered to dress like he just rolled out of bed doesn’t mean that Charles is going to; in fact, they agreed it would be better if he didn’t. The shirt is blue and supposedly complements his eyes—ah, there it is. Charles carefully hangs it from the back of his door to avoid wrinkling, then looks at Hank’s phone.

The message reads, **All set. See you tomorrow. ;)**

“Winky-face?” Charles says out loud. He goes to sit down on his bed and misses it by a county mile, landing on his ass with a _thud_ on the floor but barely feeling it. “Oh my God, he, I—why would he—a _winky-face_?”

There’s only one person he can call.

Raven answers his request for a Skype chat despite the late hour in France, long blonde hair pulled back in a messy bun, skin peachy and freshly scrubbed. She grins when she sees him. “Hey, Charles. Since you’re on Hank’s phone I’m guessing your laptop is still in the shitter—did you get my pictures?”

“I did, Raven, and they were lovely but that isn’t why I’m calling.” Charles runs a hand through his hair, tugging at it in the back as he tries to think of a way to explain the big fucking pickle he’s in. “Hypothetically, what if I told you—”

“Oh my God, Charles, if this is about a dildo again I _will_ come across the ocean and strangle you.”

“What? No! This isn’t about my asshole—”

“For once,” Raven mutters.

Charles elects to be the bigger person and ignores that comment. “Okay, let me try this again. Hypothetically, what if I told you I went on Craigslist to find a date to the family Christmas party and accidently wound up meeting a hit man who agreed to take me to the party for some reason even though I didn’t wish to employ him, and _then_ what if I told you we were planning to make it so that I’ll never get invited to another Ball-Bash _but_ I’m confused because the hit man just sent me a winky-face in a text and every time I’ve gotten a text with a winky-face I’ve wound up shagging the person who sent it?”

“Hypothetically, I would tell you that you’re insane. Certifiably fucking Fruit-Loops.” Raven pauses, her image distorting on the phone’s screen. “But this isn’t hypothetical, is it?”

“Um…”

“ _Charles_!” Raven shouts, her voice is tinny through the small speaker but still pretty fucking loud. “What are you thinking? _Are_ you thinking? I can’t believe—” She stops again, eyes narrowing. “Charles, how hot is this guy?”

“Like magma,” Charles answers, and can’t muster the dignity to be embarrassed when he sounds wistful. “Imagine staring into the sun without your retinas melting. Think of—”

Raven holds up a well-manicured hand. “Okay, okay, I get it. You need a date or else Kurt and Cain won’t let you hear the end of it and you haven’t had sex in like, ten years or something. You’ve got a decent sense of danger—you’re _sure_ he doesn’t want something from you?”

Charles blinks. “Like what? If he wants my asshole he can have it.”

“Okay, I don’t need to know what you’re gonna do with your asshole, and that isn’t what I meant. What I _meant_ is that the family’s pretty fuckin’ rich, and there’ll be a ton of mucky-mucks at that party—what if your assassin buddy looked you up and is using you to get to one of them?”

Inexplicably, Charles feels a pang of hurt at the idea, but he has to acknowledge that it’s a valid one. “That’s… possible, I suppose. I notice you aren’t bothered by his chosen profession.”

Raven laughs. “Growing up in that house gave both of us some pretty skewed morals, Charles, but between the two of us I’m surprised it doesn’t bother _you_.”

“I… haven’t thought about it that much, to be honest.” Charles does now, chewing on the inside of his lip. “When I met him at Darwin’s, he—well, he definitely _seems_ like he could be violent, but the only time he was threatening was when he thought I might be a police officer trying to set him up. Other than that, he was perfectly nice. I could hardly believe it when he agreed to go with me after we sorted out the misunderstanding, though… do you really think he’s using me?”

“All I’m saying is that you should be careful,” Raven says. “You can’t blow off the party—you’ll never hear the end of it after you missed Cain’s wedding—so you may as well give it a shot. Hank knows you’re going, right?” When Charles nods, she gives him a lazy salute. “Then I wish you luck, young nerd. Oh, and merry Christmas, too—maybe if you’re lucky you’ll get your balls jangled.”

“ _Raven_!”

 

~***~

 

At precisely twelve o’clock the following afternoon, the most atrocious looking panel van Charles has ever laid eyes on pulls up next to where he’s standing on the sidewalk, shivering in front of his apartment building.

The vehicle in question is _old_ —older than Charles, certainly, with a manufacturing date that could possibly go back to the Carter administration. It’s painted a particularly nauseating shade of orange, one that seems to be a cross between baby shit yellow and the color of old blood, except for the back portions of either side. Those are dominated by identical renderings of Eddie Van Halen’s famous red Fender guitar, crisscrossed by abstract black and white lines that shoot in all directions.

The passenger’s window rolls down, and Charles almost doesn’t recognize Erik through the two-day beard that’s taken over his face. “Ready to go?”

Charles is momentarily distracted—the beard is almost as red as the van, a stark contrast with Erik’s auburn hair—but startles out of his thoughts when Erik pops the door open. “Oh! Sorry about that.” He climbs inside, immediately wrinkling his nose. “What on earth is that smell?”

“This damnable body spray was your idea,” Erik says, checking his mirror before pulling away from the curb. “I’d also wager that about twenty tons of marijuana has been smoked in this thing since it was built. Some crack, too.”

“No, that’s not it.” Charles cranes his neck to see into the back, noting the tears in the upholstery and what appear to be several sets of women’s shoe-prints on the ceiling. “I’m pretty sure something died back there.”

“Some _one_ , and it was a while ago.” Erik puts on his turn signal, heading for the highway. “There should be air fresheners in the glove compartment.”

Trying valiantly to ignore how easily Erik can speak about a dead person, Charles opens the glove compartment. And screams. Loudly.

Erik almost sends them careening off the on-ramp but manages to right their course. “ _Jesus fuck_ , Charles! What is it?”

“There’s—oh my God, it’s a bloody _hand_!” For some insane reason Charles finds himself holding the object in question by one extremely shriveled finger. “I thought you killed people, not tortured them! Why the hell would you cut off some poor bastard’s _hand_?”

“ _I_ didn’t.” Calmly, Erik rolls down his window and holds out his own very much attached and—oh God, now was _not_ the time—incredibly big hand. “Give that to me.”

Charles drops the severed appendage into Erik’s waiting grip, glad to be rid of it. Then his jaw drops when Erik tosses the hand out of the open window. It careens through the cold air in a long, flawless arc before it lands on the windshield of a brand-new Lexus sedan, the driver of which promptly crashes into the median barrier and starts a chain-reaction involving ten other vehicles.

“That… you… holy mother of crap, Erik!” Charles grabs the _oh shit_ handle as the van picks up speed, engine rattling like a fat hamster’s crawling around inside of it. “If that’s how you react to a severed hand I’d hate to see what you do with your empty soda cans.”

To his surprise, Erik looks over at him and _grins_ , impossibly wide and full of teeth. By all rights it should be frightening, but Charles feels heat blooming in his gut instead. He fights against more shivers for an entirely different reason than when Erik came to pick him up. These are born from lust and potential and yes, maybe just a touch of fear—mostly the fear that his libido may not be able to handle too many grins like that.

 

~***~

 

Despite the godawful stench inside Logan’s van, the three-hour drive to North Salem doesn’t feel long at all. Erik had been worried that Charles would regret accepting his offer after discovering the hand in the glove compartment (he really _didn’t_ put it, Azazel must’ve had the van before him) but it doesn’t seem like that’s the case.

They stop briefly outside Boston at a gas station for coffee and sandwiches and then they’re off, the wide stretch of the Massachusetts Turnpike rolling out in front of them like a smooth gray ribbon. It starts to snow lightly as they pass Worchester and get on I-84, and Charles comments on how awful Boston and Cambridge were at clearing the streets after the last big storm.

After Erik supplies his own opinion on the DOT’s cleanup efforts the conversation moves from the weather to Charles’ doctorate program and Erik’s brief stint in community college. They discuss everything from politics to car maintenance to chess, and Erik is pleased to learn that once Charles gets over his initial awkwardness he’s actually quite charming.

And intelligent. And funny. And so fucking attractive that it’s almost painful, and he doesn’t even seem to realize it.

God, Erik’s fucked.

When the conversation shifts again and Charles discovers that Erik can cook, he becomes fascinated. “Oh, really? What sorts of things do you like to make? I’m afraid I’m one of those people who has managed to burn water.”

That startles a laugh out of Erik. He can’t remember the last time he laughed due to genuine amusement. It feels nice. “You’re kidding—it can’t be _that_ bad.”

“Hank once had to call nine-one-one because I tried to make ramen on the stovetop and it exploded in the pot.” Charles recalls the incident with a chuckle, like it wasn’t messy and also possibly life-threatening, curled up in the passenger’s seat and looking completely at ease. “When the boys from the department arrived there were flaming noodles hanging off the ceiling fan and I was desperately trying to put out my chemistry textbook. By putting water on it.” When this only causes Erik to laugh harder, Charles swats his shoulder playfully. “It’s not funny! That was a two hundred dollar book and Hank wouldn’t let me borrow his—I wound up copying my notes from a boy named Piotr and I didn’t realize they were in Russian until my professor handed me a C minus.”

By now they’ve left the highway, travelling down a narrow, worn-down road surrounded on either side by trees and shrubs and massive piles of snow. The monotony is broken by the occasional house or residential street. Erik can make out the sheen of a frozen lake when the road curves, and it’s only when he glances at it does he notice that Charles has gone still, save for nibbling on his cuticles.

“You’ll want to make a left up here,” he says, and Erik hears something… off in his voice, but can’t pinpoint what. “After that it’ll be on the right—there’s a big gate, you can’t miss it.”

The van rattles and coughs its way up to the wrought-iron barrier a couple of minutes later. Erik nearly jumps out of his skin when Charles unbuckles his seatbelt and leans across him to roll down the window and talk into the speaker that’s hooked into the gate’s electronics. He’s wearing the same coat and scarf he had on in Darwin’s the other day, and that pettable-looking hair of his tickles Erik’s nose. He breathes in curiously, discovers it smells like apples, and all of his sentient thought goes strolling out the fucking door.

“Thank you, Geoffrey,” Charles is saying, and then the gate is opening and he seems to realize where he is and exactly how much of him is touching Erik. Wide blue eyes stare at him in the fading afternoon light. This close, Erik can pick out individual shades of azure and sapphire. “Oh. Sorry. They, uh, wouldn’t have let us in if I… hadn’t. Spoken to someone.”

Erik licks his lips and watches as those incredible eyes track the movement. He’s hasn’t been this affected by another person since he was a teenager, or hell, it’s possible it’s _never_ been like this before. He shifts in an attempt to get some of the pressure off his half-hard dick—these stupid pants are tight enough that he might not ever have children—and feels the metal of his gun bite into the small of his back.

It’s only there as a precaution, but the weapon serves as a jarring reminder of exactly who and what he is, and it’s enough to make him recall Emma’s chiding voice and all the reasons why this is a terrible idea.

Gently but firmly he pushes Charles back over the center console and grabs the wheel, ignoring the way his gaze bores into the side of Erik’s face as they continue up the driveway.

The driveway which goes on, and on, and oh my God, fucking _on_ for at least a half-mile, finally ending in a crowded parking circle, a gigantic fountain built in the shape of an _X,_ and a palatial Georgian mansion that looks like it could be hiding a lost city within its halls. A light burns in every window and smoke pours from the chimneys, the generous front entrance ringed with crisp white LEDs and flanked on either side by doormen in tuxedo dress.

Erik turns off the van, glancing down at the pink-haired troll on the keychain in his hand, then at his attire, and finally over at Charles. “Are you sure this is what you want? All of this—” here he uses the troll to gesture at the house and the expensive cars “—it does seem like it suits you.”

Charles studies his expression for a moment, then shakes his head. “Trust me, my friend, it most assuredly does not.” He pops open his door and goes to get out, turning back to give Erik a suddenly mischievous, anticipatory look. “Are you ready for this?”

Erik snatches up Charles’ hand and licks the back of it, slobbering like the sleazeball he’s supposed to be. “Let’s find out.”

 

~***~

**Author's Note:**

> (This fic is on a semi-permanent hiatus! Sorry!)


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